


Drowning

by Kien Rugastelo (cein)



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 06:03:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9587033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cein/pseuds/Kien%20Rugastelo
Summary: Leonard isn't coping well with being in space. Jim asks him about it. Spock confronts him.(Set before the events of Mirror, Mirror.)





	

Leonard McCoy knew he was functioning about as well as could be expected for someone who had absolutely no business being in space in the first place. He knew, logically, that the only form of transportation statistically safer than space travel was beaming from one location to the next—and wasn’t that a laugh. There simply wasn’t anything in space to collide with, no vehicles that weren’t operated by highly trained personnel. He had a better chance killing himself walking the halls of the corridors tripping over his own two feet than he was to die in some horrific accident out in the vacuum of space. And yet—

And yet, he knew what the vacuum of space could do to a body, what kind of radiation was out there, what kind of disasters could result from a little bit of trouble with the warp core. He had to know about them, because he was the one expected to undo the damage and save lives should they ever happen to anyone on the ship.

So he managed about as well as anyone else who had gotten this far out before realizing that space probably wasn’t the best line of work for them. At his age—and anyone else on the ship with a similar problem, but he kept those safely and confidently in his own medical files—there wasn’t much option by the way of career choice. He’d worked too long and too hard to be a doctor, and he was in the service now whether he liked it or not.

Sometimes, he needed a mild tranquilizer to push back the dread, or a light stimulant to force his mind to focus on the work, but never more than he prescribed anyone else, never more than strictly necessary, never enough to qualify as a problem when he tallied and submitted the monthly inventory report. Never enough that it couldn’t be chalked up to the regular needs of any surgeon who was technically on-call 24/7.

Which is how it came to be that when he needed to relax on his off-duty hours, he poured himself a glass. One was usually enough, two if his mind wouldn’t let it go that they were in the macro equivalent of a tin can screaming through space— _don’t think about it, Len, don’t think about it_. Sometimes, though, something would just set him off, like the ensign today who had come in with a minor exposure injury after “forgetting” to wear a pressure suit beneath his walk suit—and Leonard would be tearing Scotty a new one later about enforcing basic safety procedures—when he’d set out in a space walk to repair some minor damage that had caused a bit of buckling in one of the bulkheads.

Leonard had been fine, at first, safe in his Med Bay far from any of the outer layers of the ship, but later, alone in his cabin, with a view straight to the stars through a porthole he really wished hadn’t been put there, not knowing what section the damaged bulkhead had been in, not knowing when the last time his may have been inspected, not knowing if any moment now, a fissure that had been invisible to the naked eye would rupture and he’d be blown out into space like so much debris and Leonard caught himself pacing his cabin like he was trying to put off weight, that he set aside a hypospray charged with a chemical that would counteract the alcohol’s effects should something happen and his services were required, and knowing that he had been scheduled the next two days off, he drank.

It should have been fine. They were sitting in a starless expanse, even by the massive scales set by space itself, studying what existed in vast swathes of nothing. They were deep in Federation space, lightyears away from anyone or anything else. It was the kind of mission where you expected more injuries from boredom idleness than anything else.

4 hours and one Romulan encounter later, Leonard was swaying in his quarters, administering a second dose of the antihol because one wasn’t working well enough this time, and waiting for the effects to fully register in his system before, without changing back into his uniform, he was back in the business of saving lives. His hands were steady, his decisions correct and competent, his reaction times superb, and his breath smelling of moonshine from the amount that was still trying to digest in his gut.

It wasn’t the first time, and Leonard knew it probably wouldn’t be the last, but it was obvious enough that after everything was secure again and no one was fighting back the dark curtain of death, that Jim came down to speak with him. At least he had the grace to see him in Leonard’s office with the door shut.

“Bones,” Jim began, tentatively, struggling in and out of captain-mode in such a way that Leonard wasn’t sure if he was here in an official capacity or not.

Leonard kept his back to his “medicinal” liquor cabinet and decided to give the conversation a small push. “Jim, is this about what I was doing before I came back to sick bay?”

A kind of relief pushed at the corners of Jim’s face, perhaps at knowing they were both on the same page without having to say it, without having to push the damning question. “I’m told this wasn’t the first time.”

“Need I remind you that I was also off duty?” Leonard asked easily, always feeling lighter after a successful shift, scheduled or not. “A man’s entitled to a little drink now and then.” The words felt like a misstep before they’d even left his tongue.

“A little drink? Christine said you were smashed.” Christine, not Nurse Chapel—the talk was off the record, and Leonard intended to keep it that way.

“And I was also supposed to be off for two days! If it were anyone else—”

“It wasn’t anyone else, Bones!” Jim proceeded with the argument Leonard had started. “It was my Chief Medical Officer, who I might need in an emergency at any time—”

“Exactly!” It was the point he’d hoped Jim would make. “No one else on this ship is expected to be fit for duty at any given moment, just the Chief Surgeon. Everyone else has someone in the chain of command who can take over in an emergency, but medical personnel are expected to be ready to go at the drop of a hat.” Jim looked like he hadn’t considered so much, and Leonard made a show of rubbing a hand down his face. “Look, Jim, I’ll admit I had two days off and I had no reason to believe I’d need to be called in, so I let myself get a little drunk. But I was also ready to come in when you needed me. I did do my job and I can do my job, but you can’t expect me not to relax once in a while if you’re not going to hold the rest of the ship to the same standards. Does that sound fair?”

Leonard thought it was nothing short of a miracle that Jim had let him get it all out like that without challenging him on any point, but the bigger miracle yet, was the understanding smile. “That sounds fair,” Jim conceded. “I’m sorry, Bones.”

Relief spread through Leonard’s body almost as quickly as the impending hangover was. “And I’m sorry, Jim, for putting you in this position in the first place.”

“It happens to the best of us.” Jim took two steps toward the door, stopped, pivoted. “Just to be sure, I want to hear you say it. Do you have a problem?”

The look on Jim’s face was so gentle, so kind, that Leonard felt the regret deep in the pit of his stomach even as he kept every hint of deception clear from his face. “I don’t have a problem.”

* * *

A couple hours of paperwork and a looming headache the size of Jupiter later, Leonard made it back to his cabin, exhausted and hoping to be unconscious before the last of the moonshine finished metabolizing in his system and his hangover could begin in earnest. He could always counteract the effects medicinally, but he felt that would be taking it one step too far. Negating the effects of the liquor to save lives was one thing, canceling out the resulting hangover for his own comfort was something else entirely. He’d made his bed, and he was determined to lie in it—face-down this time, apparently.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d laid like that—not long enough to drift off to sleep, that was for sure—before a chime rang through his quarters. He ignored it; it came again, and a minute or so later, again.

Leonard groaned and pulled himself into a sitting position. “Enter.” The door slid open to reveal Spock, who stepped through immediately and allowed the door to shut behind him. Of course it was Spock. No one else would just stand there for who knows how long ringing the bell without backing down but Spock. Leonard scrounged up the last of his patience. “Listen, Spock, I’m exhausted, and I’m off duty. Whatever it is, it can wait for tomorrow.”

If Spock got the hint, he ignored it. “Doctor, I have received some disturbing reports about your health as of late.”

Leonard let out a slow breath, forcing his brain to kick back up into a gear that could handle this conversation. If Jim had been aware of his problem, then of course Spock would be. As First Officer, in charge of all crew and command issues, and being Spock of all people, Spock would be aware more than Jim should have been. “Is this on the record?”

“No, not as of yet.”

“Alright, sit down, Spock” Leonard pressed a hand against a temple and rubbed briefly. Off the record was something at least. His official reputation remained in tact, no matter what rumors circulated about him. “Then about those disturbing reports?”

Acknowledging the invitation and the fact that Leonard had no intention of leaving his bed entirely, Spock sat next to him on the bed, and both of them stared forward, determined not to look at each other. “Doctor, it has come to my attention that you may be suffering from an illness.”

Leonard could never tell if sticking to titles without names meant anything when it came to Spock, but he didn’t intend on making things easy for the Vulcan. “And what illness would that be?”

“Substance abuse disorder, specifically alcoholism.” Hearing it stated so plainly when Leonard had been lying to himself about it so far, gave him enough pause that Spock was able to press on unchallenged. “While this disease has not affected your medical ability to any measurable degree at this time, it has impacted your interpersonal relationships with both friends and shipmates. I have observed that not only have you have become increasingly reticent as of late, but that your temper has become shorter as well. It is my intention to address this problem before it becomes a matter of record.”

There was that magic word again: problem. It was a problem, and Leonard knew it no matter how much he tried to sweep it under the rug. In the beginning, it had been manageable, most likely. Thinking back on recent months, he had been hanging back from the rec room in favor of his own quarters, he had been taking a sip when nerves had started getting to him, he had let slip a xenophobic insult or two Spock’s way when he hadn’t been totally up to snuff. As usual, Spock’s logic was damn near bullet-proof.

Spock continued: “Judging from the apparent cycle I have observed, it would seem that your urge to imbibe is in response to a trigger. I have correlated these instances and they seem to most align with high-stress incidents, specifically those that affect the ship as a whole. Would I be correct in assuming that this is in response to feeling overwhelmed in the medical bay? If so, I may be able to request the addition of another surgeon to the staff in order to decrease your workload.”

It dawned on Leonard that Spock was trying to be considerate in his own way. Instead of seeking a replacement, he was offering additional support. Instead of condemning him for a drinking problem, he was offering assistance in understanding and correcting it. “No, Spock, I’m not feeling overwhelmed in sick bay. If I had my way, I’d be spending more time there than here in my quarters.”

Spock folded his hands in his lap. “If work is not the stressor, may I inquire as to what is?”

Leonard took a deep breath, held it, released it. “It’s space.”

“Space?” Spock parroted.

“Yes. I’m terrified of it, Spock. I keep thinking one of these days, something’s going to happen, and I’m going to just die blown out into space—that my body’s going to be drifting lost in that damn vacuum for the rest of eternity.”

“Doctor,” Spock’s voice sounded very patient, “Surely you are aware that space travel is safer than any form of ground travel available on earth at this time.”

“I know that, Spock,” Leonard caught his temper rising and cut it off, “But knowing that and getting over my astrophobia are two entirely different things.”

There was a pause as Spock considered Leonard’s words. “If you are indeed suffering from astrophobia, why did you pursue a career as a doctor in Starfleet?”

“It wasn’t this intense at first,” he admitted with a little defeat. “I feel like every time we have an incident—a battle or an accident—it gets worse.” It sounded logical to Leonard at least.

Spock adjusted his hands so they were laced together in front of him. “Doctor, if you are experiencing a fear of space to this degree, then perhaps—”

“No, Spock,” Leonard cut him off before he could finish the thought. “I want to be here. I can do the most good _here_. I’m just not adjusting well, that’s all.” _Adjusting well_ was probably not the word for it, considering they had been out in space for over a year now, but if Spock took issue with his wording, he didn’t say as much.

“Then you are determined to stay here on the _Enterprise_?”

Leonard nodded. “I am.”

Spock sat still—thinking, considering—long enough to make Leonard more than nervous. Then without warning, Spock straightened even more than before. “I may be able to provide assistance for the psychological aspect of your disorder, and I am willing, so long as you address the physical aspects accordingly.”

Leonard frowned a bit. “If you mean talk therapy, I’ve already—”

“No, not talk therapy, Doctor. You have already admitted that your aversion to space goes beyond your rational processes, and that despite that, you are determined to remain here on this ship. This leads me to believe you would have already attempted to encourage your mind to accept the logic of the facts, to no avail. As you are a skilled physician and it would take considerable time to arrange a replacement and acquaint them with a new ship and new patients, I am averse to recommending your discharge at this time if it can so be avoided. When putting these things into consideration, it is of my opinion that a mind meld may be the most appropriate course of action.”

“A mind meld?” Leonard said with a start. “You really think you’re going to be able to solve this mess by poking around in my head?”

Spock brought his hands in front of his face. “No. I am aware that this will be an ongoing struggle for you. I do not expect you to achieve sobriety overnight, nor am I dismissing the possibility of experiencing setbacks.” Spock pulled his hands back down and turned, facing Leonard for the first time since the difficult conversation began. “However, I do believe the best results will be achieved by first correcting the underlying aberrant thought processes, and that continuing success depends strongly on building on a strong foundation of logical thought. I would also prefer to avoid watching you become increasingly ill or facing the prospect of losing your services on this ship. A mind meld is the most logical solution at this time.”

It was about as emotional a confession as he was going to get. Leonard brought a knuckle to his chin and turned over all this new information in his head. He couldn’t argue that the idea had merit, and he didn’t relish the thought of possibly facing a discharge or having his problem turn into a more permanent issue. Everything Spock said sounded right, and if Leonard was being honest with himself, the proposal felt like the saving grace he’d been looking for all these months. Mind made up, Leonard addressed Spock again. “And this will all stay off the record?”

If Leonard didn’t know better, he would have thought Spock looked relieved. “So long as progress is being made, I am reasonably certain your treatment can remain confidential.”

“Even from Jim?”

“The Captain need not be informed.”

Leonard propped his foot on a knee and considered once more, giving himself one last chance to back out. He could trust Spock to be discrete. He believed him when he implied that this would be between just them so long as some progress was being made. He knew for a fact that Spock could handle the job with all the tact the situation deserved. All that was left for Leonard was to decide if he was really ready.

Leonard turned and faced Spock cross-legged on the bed. “Alright, Spock, let’s do this.”

Leonard closed his eyes and felt fingers press lightly against his face. _“My mind to your mind. Your thoughts to my thoughts….”_ Then Leonard’s mind was both one and two and space suddenly was not so very vast.


End file.
